


the third rule of purity club

by deadlybride



Series: kink bingo fills [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Spanking, Virginity Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 08:39:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15725868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: After a potential dragon hunt goes bust, Dean and Sam blow off some steam; Sam makes a surprising discovery.





	the third rule of purity club

**Author's Note:**

> Anon said: _i feel like dean would be WAAAY too much with regards to virgin roleplay he's such a dork when it comes to sex it's lucky that sam is also a dork when it comes to sex_
> 
> written for the 2018 SPNKinkBingo, filling the 'Spanking' square.

They get back to the motel in a semi-steady stumble. At least, semi-steady for Sam—Dean seems rock-solid, though he's in a bright ridiculous mood that Sam hasn't seen in a while now, laughing at Sam while he tries to get the key into the door.

"It's _dark_ ," says Sam, and instantly wishes he didn't because Dean just parrots him sarcastically, sniggering when there's more abortive little scrapes as Sam prods at the lock.

"Performance issues at your age, that's sad," Dean says. Sam kicks backward with one heel, hitting something enough to make Dean go _ow_. It _is_ dark, the motel a cheap hole that doesn't bother with lighting the sidewalks between the rooms, and it takes him another second to— _finally_ —

"Yes!" he says, the door bursting open under the weight he's been leaning on it while he fumbled, and Dean blows a raspberry but leans right onto him too for a second before he shoves past into the also-dark empty room. Old cigarettes and musty carpet, home sweet home. Sam leans in the doorway, letting the cold night air outside mix into the funky warm inside, heels off his boots. In the bathroom Dean's taking what sounds like the longest piss ever, the door open between them.

Sam should have a glass of water; he wants a beer. Been too long since they just had an easy night off like this, especially with how Dean's always nagging about his stupid _wall_. He tips his head heavy against the door frame. What wall. Every bracing hand he's ever needed is right here.

"I'm in charge of finding the next hunt," Dean says, half-shouting from the bathroom. Jesus, he's still pissing, the stream loud where it's echoing off the tile walls in there.

"Maybe don't shout about our job to the whole motel," Sam says, shaking his head, but he bets Dean can't hear him, and—well, theirs is one of about three cars in the lot. Even so. "Anyway," he says, louder, "how was I supposed to know? It totally fit the pattern."

Finally there's a flush, and then running water in the sink. "I blame you," Dean says, still shouting. "Definitely your fault. Hundred percent."

Sam rolls his eyes, but he's not fast enough to bite down on his smile before Dean comes out of the bathroom and sees it. He gets waggly eyebrows for his trouble and then Dean's stripping off his jacket, tossing it straight to the floor. "I wanted to kill _dragons_ , Sammy," he says, all exaggerated upset. "How are you gonna withhold my badass dragonslayer moment, huh? How do you do that to your brother?"

"I'm terrible," Sam agrees, gravely. Dean sighs and tips over onto the bed, toeing awkwardly at his own boots to get them off. It really did look like it might be dragons—fires, a missing girl, a few jewelry thefts—but it turned out that Sacramento was just having the worst kind of luck, and they ended up with—

"Bupkis," Dean says, his boots finally thudding down to the carpet. He splays out, apparently forgetting his fake upset, smiling up at the ceiling. Sam chews on his bottom lip a little, looking at him, and then reaches back and finally closes the door, flicking the switch so that the light… over by the desk comes on. Motels and their random lighting. He pulls off his own jacket on his way to the mini-fridge. Beer, not water. They deserve it after this ridiculous day.

Dean grunts when Sam drops the cold can onto his stomach, but he takes it and just holds it upright on his chest while Sam slouches onto the other bed. Still warm in here, but the beer's good, a nice cold bitterness that slides right down to his belly. The world's not spinning, not really, but they did have a whiskey more than Sam intended while they were hustling. Sam's feeling good. Maybe not as good as Dean, who smiles up at the ceiling for another minute and then laughs, for no reason Sam can tell.

He nudges the bed with an outstretched socked foot, makes Dean bobble. "What," he says.

Dean turns his head on the mattress, smiling loose. "Just thinking about those girls we talked to," he says. Sam feels himself start to color, but he laughs, too, and Dean's grin widens. "Can't believe you flat-out asked them if they were virgins, you total dork."

"Hey, got the job done," Sam says, with a shrug. "Anyway, I just asked if they'd join our purity club. There's a difference."

"Right," Dean says, nodding seriously against the bed, "the _purity club_ ," and Sam rocks the mattress harder, makes it shake. Dean rolls up to sitting, the beer balanced on the bed with one hand, and squints at Sam. "So—are you the founding member of Purity Club? President? _Treasurer?_ "

"Oh, here we go." Sam cracks his own beer, takes a swig. This is going to be great for his ego, he can already tell.

Dean's hair is fluffed up at the back from rubbing on the comforter, the sleeves shoved up on his henley, his eyes crinkled-up and mirthful in the half-bright. He chews his lip, faux thoughtful, and then nods at Sam. "Mm, you're the president. Always were an overachiever. All the other pure pure people probably took one look at you and thought, there's our king. He's the one to lead us into, uh, virgin glory."

"Glory, huh," Sam says. Dean nods, grinning, and Sam leans back on one hand on his bed, gets comfortable. He tips his beer at Dean. "So, what's your position in Purity Club?"

"Oh, Mr. _Winchester_ ," Dean says, all falsetto, but it cracks his voice and he starts to cough. He waves a hand at Sam's snort and puts his beer down on the table between the two beds, sitting up in some weird approximation of prim when he's done—knees together, hands folded, back arched in that way when people think they're sitting up straight. Sam grins at him. "I," says Dean, breathy and bright, "am just so _excited_ to join your wonderful organization. I just think that—ahem—sexual _intercoursing_ is just the ickiest thing anyone could ever do. Yuck city, for real."

 _Ickiest_ , Sam mouths, and Dean snorts, his expression wavering, before he goes all serene again. Ridiculous shit. Sam shakes his head, but—oh, what the hell. They haven't really screwed around since that time in Montana and Dean's been careful with him too long. He'll take the silly shit if he gets Dean all boozed up and cheerful. He drags down another cold slug of beer and then lets his knees fall wide. Dean's eyes drop, just for a moment, before he puts on that concussed choir girl expression again. Sam smiles. Yeah, okay.

"So, uh," Sam starts, tapping his thumb on the side of his beer. He sucks at this, whenever Dean wants to play it. "Do you think you have the strength of character to stick with our purity rules?"

Dean's lips thin as he tries to suppress another smile. "Oh, yes, sir," he manages, wobbly. "I, uh, I love rules." Sam snorts, and Dean has to cover his mouth for a second. He blinks at Sam, just—happy, and something soft and warm spreads in Sam's chest. Dean folds his hands in his lap when he gets his composure again, hip cocked on the bed. He looks like Bugs Bunny playing innocent for Elmer Fudd. Sam has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud when Dean puts on that high fake voice again. "Maybe you could test me? Make sure I'm pure enough?"

The imagery that flashes behind Sam's eyes—that soft warm thing goes a little hotter, and—oh. This crap doesn't really work for him most of the time, but now his dick's starting to get interested. He looks steady at Dean for a long moment. Trails his eyes deliberately down his chest, his crotch, his thighs, and when he looks up again Dean's got a little color seeping up in his cheeks, his lips slightly parted. Sam tips up his can, drains down the last few swallows of beer, and sets the empty very deliberately on the nightstand. He scoots back a bit on his bed, knees wide, and lifts his chin a little. "Okay," he says, slow. "Stand up, let's see."

Dean blinks, but he does it. There's not that much space between the two beds, but he makes the most of it—takes a half-step forward and puts his hands on his hips, spinning around like a beauty queen, hips cocking back and forth. He's in that old brown henley that somehow survived all these years on the road, jeans that have been washed a few hundred times more than they should've. Not exactly dressed to seduce, on anyone else. Sam hums, and when Dean's facing him again reaches out and hooks one finger into a beltloop, tugging. "Might need to see more," he says, all seriousness.

Dean licks his lips, makes them shine in the dim light. "Yessir, Mr. President," he says, Marilyn Monroe, and then he just reaches down and peels the henley off, just like that, tossing it over his head to land on the green bedspread behind him. Sam bites the corner of his mouth. Pale skin, his soft-ish chest and belly. The empty space over his breastbone where nothing hangs, anymore. He reaches up and puts his hand flat on that spot, takes the warmth of Dean's skin like a shock, and Dean shuffles in a little closer, their knees brushing. "How's that?"

"Good," Sam says, automatically. He clears his throat—he nearly forgot. "You seem very, um, pure."

"As the driven snow," Dean says, nodding, and Sam pushes at his chest a little before he drops his hand. Dean grins and drops his hands to his belt. "You probably ought to check me all over, sir. Make sure."

"Probably," Sam says, dick pulsing again, and then he leans back and watches while Dean unbuckles his belt and lets the ends dangle, while he unbuttons and unzips. "Turn around," Sam says, "leave your boxers on," and Dean glances up at him but he does it, so that when he starts to push his jeans down Sam gets a view of that perfect ass, barely covered by the thin fabric of the boxer-briefs, washed-grey and clinging. He sits up straight and holds Dean by the hips while the jeans drop, while he kicks them out of the way, and he has to drag his hands over his ass, just has to, slides down the muscle in his thighs.

Dean peeks over his shoulder, wiggles his hips just a little. This feels like—years ago, the two of them younger and dumber. Sam smiles up at him, drops a kiss on the soft skin of his back above the boxer waistband, and then tugs at one hip so Dean turns around again, pulled in so he's standing right between Sam's spread legs. He's not hard, but he's getting there, a chubbed-up weight pushing at the front of his briefs. Sam holds onto his hips, his thumbs dragging down the soft cotton but not touching anything, and he feels the shiver roll down Dean's back. He looks up and Dean's looking right back down at him, the flush in his cheeks a little darker, his teeth in his bottom lip.

"Have you ever had someone touch you here before?" Sam says, trying to hold it together. "We do need to make sure you're really a virgin, after all. For, uh. Tax reasons."

Dean's eyebrows fly up. "Seriously?" he says, in his normal voice, and Sam shrugs, grimacing. Dean shakes his head, but when he speaks again he's in full falsetto. "Oh, of course, _taxes_ , that makes… total sense. I wouldn't want your virginity audit to go wrong!" Sam rolls his eyes—okay, he's going to pay for that one—but then Dean puts his hands on Sam's shoulders and climbs right onto the bed, into his lap, his knees denting into the mattress on either side of Sam's hips and his ass settling on Sam's thighs. Sam leans back to balance him, catches his waist. All that warm weight, god. Dean rests his arms on Sam's shoulders, looking down into his face, smiling. "Anything else you need to check, _sir_?"

Sam slides his hand down one thigh, letting the light hair prickle against his palm. "Hmm," he says, "I'm just not sure, you know?" He slides his hand back up and lets his thumb slip under the leg of Dean's shorts, dragging a circle on the fine skin at the inside of his thigh. Dean bites his lip, his hips shifting. "You might still be a harlot."

Dean snorts, but he immediately puts on a wounded expression. "How _dare_ you," he says, and shifts his hips again, pushing in close enough that his dick's pressed up against Sam's where it's still trapped in his jeans. God, he wishes he'd stripped off. Dean starts to rock against him, just little shifting movements that push them together, balancing on Sam's shoulders. He has to grab Dean's hips, closing his eyes. "I just can't believe," he says, breath hot against Sam's temple, "you could ever accuse me," and he presses in hard then, christ, all that warm pressure digging right in where Sam wants it, and he squeezes Dean's hips, arches up into his weight so Dean makes a small sound deep in his throat.

"You want me to believe you?" Sam says, running a hand up Dean's back. "Stop wiggling." He smacks Dean's ass, makes the muscle jiggle through the thin fabric of his shorts.

Dean's hips flinch and he clutches the back of Sam's neck. "Ah," he breathes, and Sam pulls back, looks up into his face. He's pink all over, the tops of his ears red. Sam licks his lips, searches Dean's face, and swats him again—not hard, not even enough to make his hand sting, but Dean's thighs clench up around Sam's hips anyway.

"Seriously?" Sam says. They've never—in all their years of screwing around, it never even occurred to him as a _thing_.

"Shut up," Dean says, breathy, but it's for real now, not that dumb porn-virgin voice but really his brother, turned on beyond belief. Sam squeezes one ass-cheek and Dean shudders, arches his hips back, and Sam drops his other hand between them to wrap his hand around Dean's dick where it's pushing out his boxers, jerking him slowly through the cotton. Already damp at the tip and he can't believe they never tried this before.

"Come on, honey," Sam says, making his voice serious, and Dean blinks down at him, frowning. "You really want to prove you're a virgin?"

Dean slides his hands into Sam's hair, shaking his head. "You dork," Dean says, low, and when Sam says, squeezing his ass again, _you started it!_ Dean just rolls his eyes, and then he leans down and kisses Sam, finally, his mouth wet and soft, opening up right away to flick his tongue in. Sam wraps his arm around the small of Dean's back, curls him in close, tilts his head back. Mm. Dean tastes like beer, like his own spit. Sam sucks soft on the plush give of his lower lip and starts to work Dean's boxers down, pushing the waistband below the curve of his ass so he can palm warm bare skin. His favorite thing in the world, nearly. Dean tips his head back, groaning in his throat, and Sam lets his mouth trail down, kissing open mouthed on the stubbled line of his chin, his adam's apple, down to press a soft smooch into the hollow of his throat. He scrapes his nails over Dean's ass, lightly, and when Dean finally turns his face back down Sam kisses his lips, just once, and then raises his eyebrows.

Dean's mouth is wet and red. Backlit from the bathroom, his hair's gone blond at the edges and the blush has spread all down his chest. "Do it again," he says, and Sam holds him steady with one hand on his back and lets the other crack down on his ass, harder this time. Dean lurches forward into Sam's dick and his hand clenches so hard in Sam's hair that he might have pulled a few strands out, and Sam sucks in a breath and then pushes Dean back, says, "Get these off," and Dean wobbles up to his feet and Sam shoves back a few more inches on the bed, getting open his own belt and jeans. His dick pops up out of his fly immediately, huge and straining, and while he arches his hips up and shoves jeans and boxers down to his thighs Dean's stripping off his own, hopping awkwardly to get one sock off and then the other with his erection bobbing between his legs, and then Sam holds out a hand and Dean crawls right back onto the bed, finding his spot again in Sam's lap and splaying his thighs out wide, leaning down and kissing Sam with his hands tight on Sam's shoulders. He's so _good_ , so sweet and hot. Sam crowds him close again, picking up his hips and settling him right where he wants him, and it's a hot shivery shock when their dicks press together, Dean's balls smushing right against his, god. He ducks away from Dean's mouth, puts his lips against Dean's shoulder and kisses him there, and then he wraps his arm steady around Dean's back, curls him forward as much as he can, and then he lifts his strong right hand and cracks his ass, hard, makes Dean grunt.

Dean's hips shift, his dick sliding deliciously against Sam's. "Do it again," he whispers, against the top of Sam's ear, and Sam kisses his neck and then—just keeps going, smacking down again and again, trying to find some kind of rhythm. Dean's ass jiggles and he lurches forward with each one, his breath coming hard and fast against Sam's neck where they're pressed together so tight. The angle's awkward, and Sam can't get his full power behind it, but he's got reach; he spanks Dean's other cheek, and then lifts him up a little with his grip around his back and smacks him right on-center, and Dean yelps, his dick pushing wet and leaky against Sam's stomach. His chest heaves against Sam's, and Sam smacks him harder there, and leaves his hand pressed close once he has—the skin's getting warm, blood rushing to it.

He barely remembers getting spanked, and has no idea if Dean ever was when they were kids, and he doesn't know if this is a thing that Dean's been wanting, if it's something he learned over the year Sam was gone, if it's brand new, fresh—but god, there's enough whiskey still whispering through Sam's blood that it's hot either way, just from how much it's working for Dean. Sam drags his lips up Dean's neck, lets his fingers slip into the hotter crack of his ass, trailing down. "Good?" he says, letting his forefinger press against Dean's hole.

"Jesus," Dean gets out. He leans back, looks into Sam's face, and—oh, god, the flushed want of him, his eyes wet at the corners, his lips bitten to dark wet red. He's breathing open-mouthed, dick pressing up against Sam's stomach, and Sam drags his hand around, cups his balls warm and close against his body. "Sammy," Dean says, like that's all he can think of, and Sam says, his dick lurching, "You think you can come from this? Like this?" and Dean groans, his jaw dropping open, and Sam curls his arm back around Dean and tips them over backwards on the bed, falling flat and making Dean splay out over him. The shift in weight drags Dean's dick all over his and he jolts his hips up, can't help it, but not yet, not yet—Dean pushes up on his arms, planted just above Sam's shoulders, and Sam hikes him up a little higher and to one side so his dick's pushed into the cut of Sam's hip, Sam's own dick mashed under the warm taut weight of Dean's thigh, and then he says looking right into Dean's eyes, "You tell me if you want me to stop," and he winds back and hits Dean just as hard as he can, so hard his hand hurts from the sting of it. Dean yelps and crumples down to one elbow, his face pressed against Sam's flannel shirt, and Sam hits him again, spanks him again, a steady swift smacking that rocks Dean's body, his hips flinching away and smearing his dick against Sam's hip, his thighs clenching hard to stay in place.

Dean's hard and leaky, wet smearing all over Sam's hip and belly, and he's letting out these steady grunted-out moans every time Sam spanks him. Sam's arm's getting sore, his shoulder hurting, but he hugs Dean closer and keeps going, smacking his thighs sometimes, sometimes right on the pretty curve where his ass starts to swell out. Dean tucks his face down against Sam's shoulder, breathing like a bellows, and Sam smacks him again, and finally Dean says, voice cracked apart, "Wait, wait," and Sam stops right away, sliding his hand down Dean's thigh, and then rolls them over on the bed, flipping Dean onto his back. He crawls right between Dean's thighs and mashes their dicks together, Dean moaning and lifting his hips up and wrapping his legs around Sam's waist, and he's—god, he's crying, or at least it looks like it, tears streaked down his temples and his eyes screwed shut. Sam leans forward and kisses him and then ruts forward, sliding hard into the soft give of Dean's body and making sure he's grinding hard against Dean. Dean grabs his hair and fists into Sam's shirt over his ribs and humps back, humps up into him, and he comes finally while Sam's kissing him, their mouths pressed together and Dean's breath coming hot against Sam's lips. He shudders hard, dick jerking wet all over and staining Sam's shirt, his knee dragging up against Sam's side, and Sam kisses him again and then he's free, at last, to put his head down and rut hard and fast against Dean's belly, the smeared come making it wetter, better. Dean puts his hand to the back of Sam's head and grabs his ass with the other, pulling him down into Dean's body, and finally that dark heavy tightening in Sam's belly snaps and he unloads, clenching, spilling all over Dean's belly with four seizing jerks with a muffled shout pushed into warm sweaty shoulder, until he can finally stop moving and just breathe, letting his weight sink into Dean's, sweating, his lips pressed to Dean's racing pulse.

He just breathes there for a while, trying to come down. Dean makes a decent pillow. His fingers thread through Sam's hair where it's damp at the back, and then trail down Sam's spine, muffled through the flannel and the t-shirt below it. Sam licks at the salty skin of Dean's throat, and kisses it after. Dean makes a soft noise.

Finally, Dean arches his back. His foot slides down Sam's thigh to his calf, and then kicks him lightly. "Off," he says, and Sam heaves a deep sigh and then rolls over, thudding back down to the bed to stare up at the popcorn ceiling. His dick's still flushed and full, flopped against his thigh, and the cold air after Dean's sticky warmth is pretty awful. Jeans are still caught awkward around his thighs, too, and he heaves in his will and sits up enough to take care of that, shoving them off down to the floor, socks too, and then heaves both shirts up and over his head. Dean whistles, low. Sam rolls his eyes, but he sinks back down to the bed, tilts in on one elbow next to Dean and leans in and kisses him, sliding two fingers along the stubble on his jaw.

When he pulls back, Dean's face still holds a bit of that flush, but he seems mostly recovered. The trail of wet at his temples has dried, and Sam touches gently there where it's gleaming. Dean shakes his head and catches Sam's hand, drags it down to hold it against his chest. Trapped, there's still just enough give in Sam's grip that he can scrub back and forth against Dean's sternum. That empty spot. He wonders if he'll ever be used to it.

"Oh, hey," Dean says. His voice is all rust, his eyes closed. "I don't think I'm a virgin."

Sam snorts, and the corners of Dean's mouth immediately turn up. "You're an idiot," he says, dry, and Dean grins outright. Sam disentangles his hand and slides it down Dean's side, thumb smearing through the wet where the come dripped over his side, and carefully holds his hip, his fingers slipping down over the curve of his ass. "Does it hurt?" he says.

Dean's turn to snort, then. "You've got a hand like a shovel, Sammy, of course it hurts." Sam winces, and Dean's eyes open finally, still holding a bit of damp, his eyelashes dark. "Leave it," he says, and when Sam raises his eyebrows Dean just shrugs, and licks his lips. "I don't mind."

Sam hums, and squeezes Dean's hip, just a little. Long as his fingers are, he knows he gets some of the stung skin, but Dean doesn't flinch away, doesn't stiffen, and, well. All right, then. "Can I get you a beer, at least?" Sam says, and Dean nods, and so Sam gets up and walks naked across to the little fridge, squatting down to grab the last two beers they've got. When he stands up again Dean's sitting, careful, on the edge of the mattress. The way his thighs are tensed, Sam can tell he's trying to keep the weight off his ass, but he's smiling. Soft and small, down at nothing Sam can see.

"Maybe once your ass is all recovered," Sam says, "we'll see how you take a belt." Dean's head jerks up and he looks at Sam open-mouthed. Sam shrugs, wiping the condensation from the cans off on his bare hip. "Just folded up, not too hard. You think?"

Dean blinks, and when Sam tosses him his beer he catches it one handed. Sam can picture it, and he's sure Dean can, too: Dean braced against the foot of a bed in some other motel, some other town, and Sam behind him—or, maybe, Dean against a wall, his ass pushed out, and when he cries uncle Sam could push up behind and fuck him, maybe, hips pressed in close against that flushed red ass. His dick twitches, interested, and he licks his lips, cracks his beer open and takes a swallow.

Dean's still watching him, and his eyes drop to Sam's dick. "Yeah," Dean says, thin, and then he feigns nonchalance a little better and shrugs, opening up his own beer and letting it foam a little over his thumb. "Yeah, maybe."

Sam smiles at him, and Dean drops his eyes, blushing up again already. It's only midnight, and no one's around to hear. Still time enough to make Dean really yell before they've got to find another case, keep moving down the road. "You want me to get some ice for that ass?" he says, and maybe that was pushing it, because Dean reaches back and flings a pillow across the room at him. He dodges, barely, but spills some beer. "Hey, don't make me spank you again."

Dean scoffs, but he's more relaxed already. "You wish, bitch," he says, leaning back, all naked, beautiful, and Sam grins at him. Yeah, he thinks. This is going to be fun.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/177141562574/the-third-rule-of-purity-club)


End file.
